


patellofemoral pain syndrome

by seventhstar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Actual Disaster Yuuri Katsuki, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Arthritis, Bad Sex, Blow Jobs, Bukkake, Chronic Pain, Cock Warming, Dom Katsuki Yuuri, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Give Yuuri Katsuki Gold, Insecurity, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Sex, Rimming, Sub Victor Nikiforov, Vibrators, Victor Nikiforov's Ridiculous Beauty Regimen, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-11-21 10:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11355348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: It’s just…does Viktor not get bored with doing it the same way every night? Doesn’t he want to spice things up? Is Yuuri being unreasonable? He’s pretty sure that if Viktor told him his performance in bed was unsatisfying his soul would flee his body for a more merciful plane of existence, but…Viktor is thicker-skinned than he is.And so here they are. Viktor’s bed is wide and soft, and Yuuri is lying there with wet hair and ratty boxers while Viktor absently trails kisses over his shoulder. It’s nice. It’s soft. It’s good. Viktor’s headboard is enormous and Yuuri keeps thinking about Viktor’s wrists bound to it, black rope over white skin. Fuck. He should say something.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuttlemefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttlemefish/gifts), [FullmetalChords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/gifts), [phlintandsteel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlintandsteel/gifts).



The thing is, Yuuri always assumed Viktor was kinky.

When Viktor was only a fantasy, Yuuri imagined that their tastes would be be in perfect alignment, because it didn’t matter what he thought in the privacy of his own head. When Viktor turned into a flesh and blood person — a beautiful person, who intimated he had plenty of past lovers — and then into a person who, incredibly, liked Yuuri or even loved Yuuri and definitely wanted to get down and dirty with him, Yuuri figured it would just be a matter of negotiation.

But it’s been five months. Viktor is lovely in every other way (which is why Yuuri hasn’t said anything.) He only occasionally complains about Yuuri’s disturbing of the arrangement of his apartment, he brings Yuuri flowers and texts him whenever he sees a cute dog, and he doesn’t mind waiting with Yuuri in the evenings while he does compulsory figures to relax. He’s not even a bad lover.

It’s just…does Viktor not get bored with doing it the same way every night? Doesn’t he want to spice things up? Is Yuuri being unreasonable? He’s pretty sure that if Viktor told him his performance in bed was unsatisfying his soul would flee his body for a more merciful plane of existence, but…Viktor is thicker-skinned than he is.

And so here they are. Viktor’s bed is wide and soft, and Yuuri is lying there with wet hair and ratty boxers while Viktor absently trails kisses over his shoulder. It’s nice. It’s soft. It’s good. Viktor’s headboard is enormous and Yuuri keeps thinking about Viktor’s wrists bound to it, black rope over white skin. Fuck. He should say something.

“Vitya?”

“Mm?”

“Can we talk?”

Viktor lifts his lips from Yuuri’s skin, and props himself up on one elbow. His hair is flat from lying down; this close Yuuri can see his pores. Someone once asked Yuuri, jokingly, if he was disappointed to find Viktor was less beautiful up close. Yuuri doesn’t know what what they mean; Viktor is perfection in every cell, every drop of blood and sweat.

He smiles at Yuuri. “Sure.”

Yuuri briefly considers repressing, as he has for the past five months — when has this strategy ever failed him before — but Viktor’s free hand wanders up his stomach and he steels himself.

“Our sex life is kind of boring, isn’t it?”

 _Fuck. Abort mission,_ Yuuri thinks, eight words in and this conversation has already fallen out of orbit and is on a collision source with the Earth, where it will no doubt render his relationship with Viktor extinct.

“T-that came out wrong!”

“Apparently that’s not the _only_ thing coming wrong in this apartment.”

“Oh my god.” Yuuri buries his face in his hands. He’s being punished for his sins. “Can I start over?”

“That would be best.” Viktor is smiling his fake smile. Yuuri used to love this smile, right until Viktor arrived in Hasetsu and started giving him real ones.

“I just think we should…you know.” Yuuri waves a hand vaguely. “Take it to the next level.”

“…you want to get married?” Viktor’s eyes widen. “Oh, _Yuuri!”_

“No! I mean — yes! We should get married! But that’s not what I mean now.”

“Oh.” Viktor pouts and flops onto his back, knees bent. He reminds Yuuri of Makkachin on a hot day; all he needs is a lolling tongue. “What is it, then?”

“Our sex life…” Yuuri blushes. He is twenty-four and he gets embarrassed saying the word ‘sex’ to his fiance, like Viktor hasn’t seen Yuuri naked, like Yuuri didn’t once spontaneously have a threesome on the dance floor because it was two am and he was riding the post-finals high. Ridiculous. “You don’t have to hold back.”

“I’m not holding back.”

“I mean, whatever you did with…everyone else, you can do with me!”

“Like what?”

“You know.” When Viktor doesn’t respond, Yuuri takes a deep breaths and manages to elaborate. “Like…BDSM?”

“What is that?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

Yuuri stares at him. Viktor must be joking. There’s no way he’s serious — unless maybe they call it something else in Russian — but oh god, if he is serious, did Yuuri just out himself as a freak?

“Uh…”

“Hmm, it must stand for something, right? Should I guess?”

“Well —” Yuuri needs to stop him, somehow, but of course this is the moment when words fail him.

Viktor taps his fingertip against his mouth. “Hmm…does the ‘d’ stand for ‘dog’? I guess than the ‘m’ would be for ‘Makkachin’.”

Yuuri’s entire life is flashing before his eyes. Either he has to explain to his fiance — his apparently pure fiance — what BDSM is, which, no — or else he has to find a way to escape this conversation. Can he run screaming out of the room? He hasn’t tried that in a while, it’s a classic.

“So then…big…dogs…something…Makkachin? But you said it had something to do with our sex life. Should I look it up?”

Viktor reaches for his phone, which is lying on the nightstand, and Yuuri panics. He is absolutely sure Viktor does not have SafeSearch on and literally nothing is less sexy than the first page of Google results for ‘BDSM’.

“NO!” He does the first thing that comes to mind and tackles Viktor, catching his arm before he can pick up his phone.

Now Yuuri is lying on Viktor, his chest on his chest, their faces close, his hand locked around Viktor’s forearm. He was wrong; there is something less sexy than googling BDSM, and it’s being attacked by your anxious fiance in the middle of a conversation about your sex life. Viktor’s fine, straight brows are raised, disappearing under his bangs, as he waits for Yuuri to…do something.

Yuuri chooses, in lieu of explaining himself, to put his face against Viktor’s neck and pretend none of this is happening. At this rate he’ll be lucky if Viktor condescends to have boring missionary sex with him ever again.

Viktor’s hands settle on his back. Yuuri can feel him tracing out errant patterns on his skin, up and down, left and right, in slow spirals. Viktor smells comforting; before Yuuri met Viktor, he never understood how a person’s scent could be soothing, how their skin on his skin could be a safe harbor. Viktor smells like a person, nothing more and nothing less. And yet.

(God, now Yuuri is going to associate bondage with Makkachin.

He can’t believe he fucked this up this badly.

Why isn’t Viktor saying anything? Did Yuuri scare him off?)

“But you know, Yuuri,” Viktor says softly. His breath brushes over Yuuri’s ear. “If you wanted to try bondage in bed, you could have just said so.”

A moment of dead silence rings as Yuuri processes this. He feels relief, then joy, then a sudden, violent irritation as Viktor snorts.

“Wait a minute — you knew!” Yuuri gropes around on the bed for a pillow, sits up, and starts hitting Viktor with it. Viktor breaks down laughing, ugly goose noises, as he bats the pillow away from his face. “You saw me panicking and you _still_ fucked with me!”

“Your face,” Viktor says, trying to failing to push the pillow away. “I’m sorry! You looked so — “

Yuuri smacks the pillow against his smug face one last time before throwing it aside and collapsing on top of him again.

“You’re the worst.”

“Mm, I know.” Viktor’s fingers brush across the back of Yuuri’s head. “Did you believe me? I’ve been Chris’s friend for almost ten years.”

“Tch.”

 _I’m so bad at this,_ he thinks. Viktor is both the easiest and the hardest person in the world to talk to. Yuuri wants to give him everything, to gut himself and let Viktor cradle all the ugly viscera inside him, and yet there is that constant fear: what if opening up is as painful as being cut open? He’s trying as hard as he can.

Viktor fidgets underneath him. Yuuri can see his free hand, long fingers worrying a fold in the duvet, rings gleaming because Viktor polishes it every morning. Viktor doesn’t have a lot of tells when he’s anxious, having trained himself out of them so he could appear composed on camera years ago, but sometimes when they’re alone, Yuuri will catch him slipping.

Yuuri’s probably the only person to ever criticize Viktor’s performance in bed. A dubious honor, and one Yuuri didn’t want, but now he has to see it through.

He rolls off of Viktor and sits beside him. Viktor props himself up against the padded headboard and meets his eyes.

“So…have you ever…?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Yuuri shrugs. “I should have known, I guess.”

Viktor’s lips thin. “What do you mean?”

Yuuri opens his mouth and then closes it again. What he means is that, in retrospect, Viktor has been weirdly resistant to changes in their sex life. Yuuri has dropped to his knees in their palatial shower any number of times, but Viktor’s never reciprocated. Yuuri’s attempts to maneuver them into new positions are always rebuffed. And Yuuri assumed that Viktor’s resistance to sex in the living room was born out of his anal retentiveness about the cleanliness of the apartment, but maybe he’s just not into having sex anywhere but a bed.

 _Okay,_ Yuuri thinks, _he’s so vanilla that he thinks couch sex is too much. That’s fine._

Viktor is still making that face, that ‘you have disappointed me, Yuuri’ face that makes Yuuri feel two inches tall. Yuuri has to do something.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to do anything else,” he says hurriedly. “It’s fine, forget I said anything —”

“Yuuri —”

“I love you and that’s not going to change, no matter what!”

“Yuuri —”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you only like missionary or don’t like shower sex or hate giving blowjobs —”

“YUURI!” Viktor clamps his hand over Yuuri’s mouth. “I love giving blowjobs I just have arthritis!”

Whatever he expected Viktor to say, this isn’t it.

“I can’t actually kneel or lie on a hard surface for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes comfortably,” Viktor says quietly. The words come out matter of fact, but Yuuri can read the terror in the set of Viktor’s jaw and the deliberate looseness of his fingers. “Because of my kneecaps, and my spine…”

“You have arthritis?”

“A little bit. Too many quad jumps, I suppose.”

“You’re in pain?”

“It’s manageable.”

“But…” Yuuri’s memories are like a kaleidescope that’s been shaken; everything looks completely different in light of this information. “Is this why you’re so weird about hotel rooms?”

“There’s nothing weird about not wanting to live like a monk,” Viktor sniffs.

“Viktor, you insist on reserving the honeymoon suite everywhere you go.”

“I’m practicing for our honeymoon!”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, as the realization hits him. “Is this why you hate flying coach? Because it’s uncomfortable? Have I been torturing you this entire time?”

“Torturing is a strong world, darling…”

Yuuri covers his face with his hands so he doesn’t have to see Viktor’s earnest expression. Great! His fiance has been in pain the entire time they’re together and Yuuri has been too busy fantasizing about bondage to notice. He’s such a catch. He can’t believe Viktor still wants to marry him.

Viktor tugs at his arm. “Yuuri,” he says, dragging out the vowels in Yuuri’s name, rolling the ‘r’.

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“I’m dying.”

Viktor sighs dramatically, which is the only warning Yuuri gets before Viktor starts tickling his sides. Yuuri shrieks and tries to push him off, giggling, and Viktor swoops down to kiss him on the mouth, muffling the last of Yuuri’s laughter with his warm lips.

“I could do it if you were an ordinary man,” Viktor says. “But with your incredible stamina — unless my knee pain is your kink, in which case —”

“I want to tie you up.” Yuuri’s mouth, without any input from his brain, starting spitting out words. “And other things. And you don’t have to kneel or lie flat on a hard surface unless you want to.”

Having made Viktor the least sexy proposition of all time, Yuuri finally manages to shut up. A faint red blush is crawling up Viktor’s ears. He’s looking at Yuuri very intently, but it’s comforting rather than intimidating, as if he’s sinking into the hot springs at home. Viktor is seeing the real Yuuri, and he’s still giving Yuuri a small, private smile as he brushes Yuuri’s too-long bangs away from his brows.

“Is that okay?”

Viktor kisses him again — slow, full of promises of things to come — and nods. 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is used to performing.
> 
> Not just on the ice, but everywhere else, too. On camera, as he walks past reporters, on the street for adoring fans, in the backrooms of the rink for his competitors and teammates, for his rivals, during interviews with sponsors…he wears a constant, ever shifting mask, adjusting himself to fill in the shape of Viktor Nikiforov, pride of Russia, living legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i lied, no smut until next chapter

“What’s that?”

Yuuri freezes, arms filled with boxes stacked so high his face is hidden behind them.

“Uh,” he says.

“You can put them in the closet,” Viktor says magnanimously. He takes another bite of his breakfast. “I won’t look.”

Viktor is used to performing.

Not just on the ice, but everywhere else, too. On camera, as he walks past reporters, on the street for adoring fans, in the backrooms of the rink for his competitors and teammates, for his rivals, during interviews with sponsors…he wears a constant, ever shifting mask, adjusting himself to fill in the shape of Viktor Nikiforov, pride of Russia, living legend.

People look at him strangely, now, when he doesn’t alter himself to meet them quite as much.

“Yuuri has changed you,” they say, and they don’t know how wrong they are. Yuuri has unchanged him, has peeled Viktor’s skin back to coo over the cracked bone underneath.

Viktor tries to be himself with Yuuri. Mostly he succeeds.

Mostly.

It’s just that Yuuri is so enamored with Viktor as a skater that…well. Viktor is accustomed to compartmentalizing away his pain. He’s never had any major acute injuries, but years of smaller abuses have left their mark on his body. Everything still looks fine. The pains and aches in his joints are invisible, a choir of goblins that sing louder when he’s tired, or practiced for too long. As long as Viktor is discreet about his painkillers, there’s no way for Yuuri to know.

He underestimated him. After their—conversation, Viktor decides, it wasn’t really a fight even if Yuuri did hurt his feelings—Viktor realized just how well Yuuri knows him. He collected all the pieces, put them together as best he could; is it his fault that the picture he pieced together was wrong? His poor Yuuri, so nervous about asking for some variety in their sex life that he reads every one of Viktor’s attempts to avoid crippling knee and back pain as a rejection.

Viktor is determined to make it up to him, but he’s not sure how. If it were anyone else, Viktor could just make a show of enjoying himself. That won’t work here.

He puzzles over the problem over the two weeks, in between practice and sleeping and letting Yuuri gently fuck between his thighs. Yuuri is obviously up to something; he keeps slamming his computer closed every time Viktor walks into the room. He’s working hard—their closet is filled with boxes—so the least Viktor can do is be ready.

Viktor’s never really longed for more in his past sexual encounters. His libido was an itch he wanted scratched, and he was lovely and young and in demand, and it was easy. He was always careful, though, not to do anything that might compromise his true love. No penetrative sex before a competition, nothing too vigorous during the season, and definitely nothing that might injure him or cause a scandal. His knowledge of kink is almost entirely academic, except for some late night solo experimentation (Chris keeps buying him sex toys.)

On the other hand, Viktor learned how to do a quad flip, how to french braid his own hair, how to make cheesecake at three in the morning when he couldn’t sleep. He already knows how to have sex; how complicated can BDSM be?

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s ‘fringing’?”

“Fringing?” Yuuri comes over and looks over Viktor’s shoulder at his computer. He turns red. “Vitya!”

“Do you not know, either?” Viktor reaches for his phone. “I wonder if Chris—”

“NO,” Yuuri says. He slaps Viktor’s hand away from his phone. “Stop getting sex advice from Urban Dictionary! Don’t tell Chris anything!”

“Who am I supposed to ask, then?”

“M-me, of course!”

He leans his head back against Yuuri’s stomach. He doesn’t know if he wants to be ignorant in front of Yuuri, who he suspects of having depths of experience contained within him. He doesn’t know, really, if it will be all right if he turns out to be bad at this.

Viktor’s never been bad at anything, not when it counted. It’s one thing to hate the pedestal; another to jump off of it, no parachute, nothing but Yuuri’s arms at the bottom waiting to catch him.

“Okay,” he says. Yuuri’s shadow has fallen over him. He clicks over to another tab. “Explain this to me, then…”

 

 

 

Three weeks in and no BDSM.

Viktor worries about this, although he’s not worrying about it right now, because Yuuri is kissing him. Yuuri ambushed Viktor on his way to the bathroom to take his naproxen and now Yuuri is holding him tightly here in the hallway, arms over his shoulders, and he tastes like cinnamon gum, and he’s panting against Viktor’s mouth like he’s just done twenty quad flips in a row.

Viktor grips Yuuri by the back of his hoodie and hauls him closer. Yuuri is so warm—he smells good, like clean laundry—Viktor wants to crush him in his arms and never let go—

His back twinges.

He tries to ignore it. It’s not terrible; if he takes his medication and applies heat, it’ll probably be fine by tomorrow. It’s fine. Yuuri is kissing him. It’s fine.

The pain sets in, dull and throbbing, low on his back. Viktor tries to shift his spine into a comfortable position against the wall, and can’t. Yuuri’s mouth against his is suddenly much less distracting. _Would Yuuri mind,_ Viktor thinks, _if I just—or will he think I’m too—_

“Vitya?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

Viktor smiles at him and hopes it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “Fine!”

“…really?”

Yuuri looks…well, he’s making the face Yakov makes when he thinks Viktor is being a diva. (Sometimes Viktor overdoes it just to get him to make that face.) He doesn’t look like he believes Viktor. Viktor spares a brief thought for those few weeks in Hasetsu when Yuuri was too in awe of him to be able to tell he was lying.

“Could you get me a naproxen?” he asks. “And a hot water bottle?”

“Yes!” Yuuri has the look of someone who’s been given a life or death mission. He runs down the hall into the bathroom with frankly ridiculous speed, considering how tired they both are, and is back with the bottle of pills before Viktor has a chance to do more than grab his lumbar support pillow and collapse into the armchair.

Yuuri fills a glass with water and tosses the hot water bottle into the microwave. Viktor closes his eyes as the machine hums and then beeps, and only opens them when he hears Yuuri hovering.

Yuuri is holding out the glass of water in one hand and the pill in the other. “Here,” he says.

“Thank you,” Viktor replies. He downs the naproxen and the entire glass of water, and then accepts the hot water bottle Yuuri has wrapped in a dish towel. He tucks it into the dip of his spine, against the place where the pain is worst, and sighs. The heat feels good.

Yuuri is still standing over him, eyes wide. Viktor’s never stooped so low as to medicate in front of him before; the pills are hidden behind a large bottle of conditioner Viktor doesn’t use. He didn’t even realize that Yuuri knew where they were. He pushes his shoulders back; slumping will only make it worse.

“Is it bad?”

“It’s…” Viktor opens his mouth to lie, and then doesn’t. “It could be worse. It comes and goes.”

Yuuri sits down on the arm of the chair, and slides an arm over Viktor’s shoulders. He doesn’t actually lean any weight on him, for which Viktor is grateful. His thumb slides along Viktor’s collarbone absently.

With his free hand, he taps the space between Viktor’s brows.

“You get this wrinkle here,” Yuuri says, “when you’re in pain.”

“I do?”

Viktor has gone his whole life without knowing this. Yuuri really is a wonder.

“Did I—” Yuuri flushes a bit. “I mean, did I make it worse?”

“No.” Viktor pats his knee. “I fractured one of my vertebrae when I was younger, and I have some early arthritis—this is what happens when I overdo it in practice.”

“Yakov told you to stop.”

“Why do you and Yakov always gang up on me? I liked it better when you were scared of him.” Viktor sighs. “As my fiance, shouldn’t you take my side?”

He squirms and adjusts the hot water bottle as it slips out of position. The medicine is starting to kick in, and the pain is receding. He’ll have to stretch before bed, maybe even take another pill in the morning before practice. It’s not bad, though, really. He can still skate.

(For now.)

(Yuuri loves Viktor’s skating. What will happen when he can’t—)

Yuuri’s hand wanders up to Viktor’s hair, to that whorl on top of his head he examines in the mirror everyday. Yuuri has a particular fascination with Viktor’s hair, he discovered early on— _is it real,_ Yuuri asked him once with dark wide eyes—and he tends to play with it when they’re alone.

“My hairline is receding, too,” Viktor says. He tilts his head into Yuuri’s touch. “Will you still love me this much when I’m old?”

“No.”

Viktor’s mouth falls open. He knew Yuuri was blunt, but still.

Yuuri strokes his head again. “Even more, I think.” His nails scrape against Viktor’s scalp. “If that’s possible.”

There is nothing Viktor can say to that. He would fling himself at Yuuri and kiss him if he could, but his back still hurts. Instead he takes Yuuri’s hand and presses his lips against his knuckles, just above his ring.

 

 

 

“Yuuri, is this yours?”

There’s yet another package sitting by their front door, a plain cardboard box sealed with black tape. Viktor resists the urge to open it; he loves surprises, but the closet is beginning to be hard to navigate. He has no idea what Yuuri has been buying, and he’s beginning to feel a little intimidated. What kind of sex requires this much preparation?

“Don’t open it!” Yuuri pushes past him to snatch up the box. He reads the label and clutches it to his chest. “Finally, it’s here…”

“Oh?”

Yuuri just shakes his head. “Can you watch the chicken? I have to put this away.”

Viktor really does not want to watch the chicken, but he goes into the kitchen and pokes at the pieces of meat in the oven until the toothpicks come out clean. Then he pulls them out, wincing as he has to crouch down to get the pan out of the oven, and puts together two plates of food: chicken, brown rice, steamed vegetables.

By the time he has dinner on the table and is sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the ottoman, rubbing his knees with an icepack, Yuuri has returned. Viktor is thinking about whether it’s worth going into the bathroom to get medicine for his knee (that’s what he gets for hitting it on the rink wall, impacts always aggravate the pain) now or if he should wait until after dinner. Yuuri looks flustered.

“Here,” he says, and shoves a tub of anti-inflammatory gel at Viktor. “Don’t get up, I’ll bring your plate.”

He brings both their plates over and settles onto the couch beside Viktor.

“How did you know?”

“You only ever eat on the couch if you’re in pain.”

“It’s hard to get food off of suede.”

“I told you we should have bought leather.” Yuuri starts devouring his chicken. “This is good.”

Viktor has to make himself eat, reminding himself that he can’t go take a painkiller on an empty stomach, and once he begins he starts to feel hungry again. Yuuri finishes first, chopsticks flying; when they’re both done he whisks away the dishes. Viktor doesn’t offer even a token protest; he doesn’t want to get up until he has to.

Yuuri doesn’t come back after he’s cleaned up dinner, and so Viktor cuddles Makkachin instead. His dog licks his face before she curls up beside him and starts making adorable wuffling noises in her sleep. Viktor has spent countless evenings like this, just him and Makkachin together, thinking about going to bed and feeling less lonely if he stayed in the living room.

With Yuuri making noise in the next room, Viktor doesn’t mind it so much. He watches practice footage of Yuuri’s quad loop (which is coming along nicely) while he waits, and that leads to him looking up footage of Yuuris quad flip on Youtube, and of course Viktor can’t watch part of their exhibition skate, he has to watch the whole thing, and then it turns out fans have made videos setting their skating to different music.

“What are you watching?”

“Someone made a video of us skating to Yurio’s exhibition skate music!”

“We should actually do that,” Yuuri says. “Not in competition, we should just show up at the rink and start ice dancing to his music and see how long it take before he threatens to skate on our faces.”

They laugh. Viktor doesn’t feel guilty for mocking Yuri’s artistic sensibilities; it’ll only make him more determined to develop his own style, which will only improve his skating further. Viktor wasn’t taken too seriously at his age, either, when he declared he had an aesthetic, and now he has literally dozens of gold medals. It’ll build character.

Viktor pulls up another compilation of skating edits, this time setting every skater in last year’s GPF to Theme of King JJ, and watches it while Yuuri texts Phichit on his phone. Yuuri keeps looking at him and then away; he reaches out, touches Viktor’s thigh, withdraws again. His eyes have that light in them; he’s thinking.

Viktor waits.

And waits. And waits. Yuuri’s eyes dart sideways at him again, over the top of his phone.

“Let’s go to bed,” Yuuri finally says.

Viktor’s knees are feeling better after being elevated and iced. They still pop loudly as he stands, dislodging a disgruntled Makkachin, who barks at him before curling back up on the sofa. He scratches her head—what a good girl—before he follows Yuuri into their bedroom.

They undress for bed, and slide under the covers together. Viktor’s mattress is the perfect level of firmness, cradling his back and limbs without being so soft he can’t easily turn over. It’s also heated, for when the nights are too cold or his pain too intense. Yuuri turns off the heater on his side, and Viktor turns on the heater on his, and then they roll towards each other in the lukewarm middle.

Yuuri’s fingers intertwine with his as they kiss. Slowly, their mouths melt against each other; warmth suffuses Viktor’s whole body; his heart is loud in the silence.

“Vitya,” Yuuri whispers against his mouth. In the dark room his lashes leave trailing shadows on his cheeks. “Tomorrow, can we try something?”

Viktor shivers. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “Yes.”

“Goodnight,” Yuuri says, dazed, and he tucks his face into Viktor’s shoulder.

Viktor holds him close, inhales the familiar smell of his hair, and tries to fall asleep. All his blood is thrumming with anticipation, half formed ideas flitting through his mind. Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment to provide me with that sweet fic glucose


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day passes with both unbearable slowness and unbearable swiftness. Every element of Yuuri’s skating and every exercise in his workout seems to take a thousand years, and yet every time he dares to check the clock three hours have passed. He and Viktor eat lunch together in a pregnant, anticipatory silence. Even the brief brush of their hands as they both reach for the last piece of cucumber leaves Yuuri’s skin burning for a full five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

The next day passes with both unbearable slowness and unbearable swiftness. Every element of Yuuri’s skating and every exercise in his workout seems to take a thousand years, and yet every time he dares to check the clock three hours have passed. He and Viktor eat lunch together in a pregnant, anticipatory silence. Even the brief brush of their hands as they both reach for the last piece of cucumber leaves Yuuri’s skin burning for a full five minutes.

Viktor skates so beautifully that Yuuri cannot stop looking at him, or maybe he is just more aware of Viktor’s body now that he is privy to its pains, now that Viktor has offered to be in his power.

By unspoken agreement, they leave the rink exactly on time.

“How do you feel?” Yuuri asks as Viktor unlocks the front door. Makkachin tackles him immediately.

Viktor smiles at him. “I’m fine.” He scratches behind Makkachin’s ears.

“Then tonight is okay?”

“Yes.”

Yuuri shivers. Viktor is taking off his jacket, revealing the sweat-soaked shirt tshirt underneath. He has a mark on his neck where he let Yuuri bite him. _Dinner,_ Yuuri thinks, _I should get him dinner,_ but he doesn’t move. He stays and watches Viktor put away his coat and his bag. It’s not until Viktor starts to go into the kitchen himself that he remembers.

“Wait.” He catches Viktor by the arm. “I’ll do it.”

“I don’t mind. Go and shower.”

“Are you sure?”

“Darling, I made dinner for myself every night before you came along without hurting myself.”

“I know that.” Yuuri shrugs. “I just want to spoil you a little.”

Viktor’s mouth drops open. Yuuri watches him actually struggle for words, gaping like a fish, before he responds.

“You’ve already spoiled me, Yuuri,” he says. “Go on.”

Yuuri considers protesting further. But if he showers now, he can let Viktor shower later while he gets things ready. He read that wet heat was good for arthritic joints, and even though Viktor says he feels fine, it can’t hurt.

He scrubs himself down thoroughly, and then borrows some of Viktor’s expensive skincare products for confidence. He struggles for a moment with what to wear, and ends up stealing pajamas from Viktor, too, because they’re softer than his own. Viktor is waiting at the dinner table with their food when he emerges; steam is rising from the plates. Viktor hands him chopsticks as he sits down.

It’s the most delicious meal Yuuri has ever eaten, and yet he couldn’t describe the taste if he was paid to do it. It’s Viktor’s eyes on him, watching Yuuri’s throat when he swallows, that make it taste good. Viktor doesn’t seem to taste what he’s eating—Yuuri sees him eat charred broccoli twice—and when the meal is over he lets his fork fall onto his plate and waits.

It’s strange to take the lead. Yuuri is content, for the most part, to let Viktor set their daily routine, simply because it’s more relaxing that way when he’s training. Viktor knows how to take care of him, and Yuuri quietly revels in it.

Still, there’s something heady about Viktor’s expectant look.

“I’ll get the dishes. You can go get cleaned up.”

“Is there anything else?”

Yuuri sort of wants to ask Viktor to lube himself up before he comes out, but decides to save it for another time. It’ll be better to do it himself. He covers Viktor’s hand on the table with his own.

“No?”

“Should I take a painkiller?”

“What? No!”

“If we’re going to be doing anything…” Viktor waves a hand. “Strenuous. Maybe I should.”

Yuuri’s first instinct is to protest again, because he would never hurt Viktor, but he forces himself to be reasonable. If Viktor were going to go for a long walk or take a long car ride, he’d take a painkiller than, and Yuuri wouldn’t think anything of it. Sex is no different.

“I, uh, wasn’t planning making you do anything vigorous.” Yuuri stares at his empty plate. “But if you think you’ll need one…”

“I won’t, then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Viktor gets up and kisses the top of Yuuri’s head. He leaves Yuuri alone with the remains of their dinner and his own mounting anxiety.

 _Oh god,_ Yuuri thinks as he loads the dishwasher, feeds Makkachin, and retreats into the bedroom. In the closet are all the boxes of things he’s ordered: velvet rope, a vibrator, some extremely fancy lube, and pillows. A lot of pillows. Maybe…too many pillows. _Are we actually going to do this?_

“’I want to spice up our sex life,’” he complains to himself as he arranges the pillows on the bed. He’s switched the mattress heater on, and he has his laptop open. He’s bookmarked so many tabs about geriatric sex he’s beginning to worry he’s on a watch list somewhere. He hopes Viktor never sees them. “Great idea, Yuuri. Convince him to marry you then scare him off with bondage. Great plan.”

He can hear Viktor singing as he showers, off-key and in throaty Russian.

Viktor’s headboard is mostly leather, but there’s a bar across the top that seems sturdy enough. Yuuri loops the rope around it and gages the distance with his eyes. Does he need more slack? Less? Should he have measured Viktor’s arms? He rearranges the pillows for maximum lumbar support for the third time. (The vibrator and the lube he puts on the side table and does not look at. He sprung for the most expensive toy, but it’s a bright pink color. Viktor likes pink, but will he like it in this context?)

The shower cuts off. Yuuri sucks in a deep breath; he still has time, Viktor’s skincare regime alone will take him twenty minutes more. He insists the serums and creams have to have time to set between application of subsequent products, and Yuuri bows to his experience.

 _Everything is ready,_ he tells himself. _Except me, I’m definitely_ not _ready._

He tries to picture it. Viktor spread out across this nest of pillows. Viktor’s wrists crossed and bound over his head. Viktor squirming as Yuuri inserts the toy into him.

Viktor could have picked anyone in the world, if he wanted, and it’s Yuuri he chose. It’s Yuuri he’s willing to belong to. What can Yuuri do, besides take care of him as best he can?

He hides his laptop and fluffs the pillows one last time as the door to the bathroom opens.

 

 

  
Viktor lingers in the bathroom longer than he should, trying to swallow down sudden nervousness.

He takes a painkiller—anti-inflammatory, not narcotic, he can’t imagine they’re going to do anything in bed that would require a Percocet beforehand—despite what he told Yuuri only minutes before. He can’t help it. He doesn’t want to ruin Yuuri’s enjoyment with his pain. Yuuri is strong and lithe and full of unfulfilled desires, and Viktor has never been more conscious of his own limitations than he is as he scrubs down in the shower and counts the minutes while the conditioner sets in his hair.

He feels old, in this moment, and he doesn’t like it. Viktor’s always been able to rest on the knowledge he could do things no one else could. Now here he is, his body at the cusp of betraying him, and he’s not even sure he can satisfy his fiance.

He arranges his wet bangs in the mirror while his anti-aging creams set. Are those smile lines around his eyes?

“Stop,” Viktor tells himself. “He had twenty posters of you on his bedroom walls, he knows what your face looks like, it’s too late now.”

It will not help Yuuri if he goes out there looking terrified. _You are a five time World Champion,_ Viktor tells himself. _You once designed a costume based on bondage, wore it in an international competition, and then admitted it to a reporter, when you were fifteen. You singlehandedly have given Yakov hypertension. All you have to do now is do whatever Yuuri tells you to, which you already do anyway, except when he’s wrong._

He puts on extra lip balm. No one has ever gone wrong by wearing more lip balm.

Viktor smooths down his clothes—pajamas, which he stole from Yuuri and which only sort of fit—and unfurrows his brow before opening the bathroom door.

Yuuri is there. Yuuri is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, looking the way Viktor feels before he catches sight of Viktor and pastes on a facsimile of his Eros expression. Yuuri is wearing Viktor’s oldest pajamas. Yuuri is there and Viktor feels better immediately.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

Yuuri gestures to the bed, which is covered in pillows. There are large ones, small ones, at least five different colors. Viktor tries to think of anything sex related he’s looked up that would require twenty-odd pillows and can’t think of anything.

“Is something wrong with the mattress?”

Yuuri flushes. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

Viktor’s chest warms. “Thank you.”

They stare at each other. Yuuri reaches out and picks up both of Viktor’s hands. His palms are sweaty. He squeezes, once, and then drops them.

“Where do you want me?”

Yuuri pats the pile of artfully arranged pillows, and Viktor starts to get onto the bed. Yuuri stops him.

“Wait.” He tugs at the hem of Viktor’s shirt. “Clothes off.” Viktor lifts his arms so Yuuri can pull the shirt over his head, and lifts his hips so Yuuri can peel off his pajama pants. Yuuri’s hands linger on his bare skin as he takes off each article of clothing. His thumb presses into Viktor’s waist, leaves a point of heat like a brand. When Viktor’s clothes are in a heap on the floor, Yuuri pushes him towards the center of the bed.

Viktor lets himself be pushed. He ends up on his back; Yuuri slides the lumbar support pillow underneath his, rests Viktor’s head on plush red satin. Yuuri, still fully dressed, sits cross legged beside him. Something about the contrast between them—Yuuri, jaw set in determination and clothed, versus Viktor, naked and blushing blotchy all over—makes butterflies flutter in Viktor’s stomach.

He still has no idea what Yuuri is planning to do to him. There is what looks like a vibrator and a bottle of lube sitting on Yuuri’s nightstand, and a length of rope hanging from the headboard, but even Viktor can think of multiple ways those two items might be used.

He licks his lips. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?”

“What? No,” Yuuri says, obviously taken aback. “That’s not really—that’s a lot. For our first time.”

“Ah.” Viktor is vaguely relieved. He hadn’t really thought…but then again, Yuuri’s reticence about his previous sex life is telling. For all Viktor knows, Yuuri spent every weekend in Detroit getting handcuffed and whipped or slapping his partners with his dick or something. Viktor has spent the last month or so determinedly not thinking about that, so of course, he can’t stop thinking about it now.

Yuuri minutely adjusts one of the pillows under Viktor’s left knee. His hand, Viktor realizes when it brushes against his leg, is shaking.

 _So he’s nervous, too,_ Viktor thinks. He pushes his knee against Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri ducks his head and touches his mouth to Viktor’s knee.

“Okay?”

Viktor’s back is cradled by pillows and he has both knees slightly bent. The bed is pleasantly warm. He’s relaxed, and stretched, and refrained from doing anything overly strenuous earlier in practice. He’s not going to get better than this.

“Mm.”

“Is it going to hurt your back if I tie you up?”

Viktor considers. His upper spine isn’t bad, and his shoulders and arms are fine. “Just leave some slack.”

Yuuri shifts up and catches his wrists. He wraps the rope around them loosely, just tight enough that Viktor’s hands are held together, and then finishes the knot. The rope is velvet, soft enough that it won’t chafe. Viktor tests his bonds; there’s enough slack to keep from getting stiff, but not enough for him to do anything. He’s trapped. Yuuri has him.

“Pretty,” Yuuri murmurs, running a finger over Viktor’s wrist along the rope. “Vitya?”

“Yes?”

“I want to edge you,” he says. “Is that okay?”

He’s slightly pink but he’s using the same voice he uses when he’s asking Viktor if he can make some ridiculous change to his program that he’s not actually going to take Viktor’s advice about. Viktor badly wants to just say yes, but there’s one small problem.

“I don’t know what that means. Really,” Viktor adds.

Yuuri haltingly explains.

“You’re not going to let me come?”

“Eventually.”

It’s a lot tamer than what Viktor was imagining, primarily because his mind went from ‘edge’ to ‘knife’, which was…worrying.

“I knew what it was in French but not in English.” Viktor feels the need to explain this, if only to cover up how nervous he actually is.

“Oh.”

“Do you want to?”

Viktor tries to imagine it. It doesn’t involve him having to do anything. All Yuuri wants, it seems, is for Viktor to lie back and let Yuuri toy with him.

He’s not used to not having control. Viktor micromanages his public image, produces his own programs, spends an hour everyday on his appearance. Even that surreal summer in Hasetsu, where Viktor abandoned so much of his discipline, was something he chose for himself, because he understood that the alternative, going on as he had been, was untenable.

Maybe that’s the problem. He’s always had control of his past sexual encounters, too, if only because he was always calculating, in the back of his mind, how sex might affect his skating. Viktor’s restraint has made him successful, but not happy.

“Yes.”

One word. Yuuri’s eyes flick over him like Viktor is a hot meal, like he’s fresh ice. His grip tightens briefly over his wrist, and then he kisses Viktor hurriedly on the mouth before leaning over and snagging the vibrator and the lube. He drops them between Viktor’s legs and slides down to lie beside him, on his side, propped up on his elbow so he can meet Viktor’s eyes.

“When you want me to stop, just tell me,” Yuuri says, face so close Viktor can feel his breath on his mouth. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO YOU THOUGHT THERE WAS GOING TO BE PORN DIDN'T YOU
> 
> yell at me about in the comments :)


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know you have an entire box of sex toys under your bed?”
> 
> “They’re from Chris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _kool aid mans into ao3_ here's your fucking porn, my dudes

Yuuri’s touch is electric.

He kisses down Viktor’s neck, lingering over his pulse, and then along his collarbone into the hollow of his throat. His hair tickles the underside of Viktor’s chin as he bites down hard enough to leave a mark.

He rolls over and straddles Viktor, thighs bracketing his. Yuuri’s mouth wanders over his shoulder, down his chest, licking and kissing; occasionally his teeth scrape lightly over Viktor’s skin. All of this Yuuri has done before, but with his hands tied, Viktor can’t do anything to direct him. He anticipates every touch of Yuuri’s mouth; he feels Yuuri’s lips like a live wire. Viktor exhales sharply when Yuuri’s tongue flicks over his nipple. It’s painfully tight, and the warmth of his tongue is soothing. He licks until Viktor has to grit his teeth to muffle a cry, and then nuzzles against his chest.

Viktor’s burgeoning erection is caught between their bodies. The soft fabric of Yuuri’s shirt sticks to the wet tip. He lifts his hips without thinking, wanting to be closer, and Yuuri’s nails scrape up his sides before he pushes Viktor back down.

“Stay,” he says.

Viktor tries. Yuuri’s mouth moves lower, leaving wet streaks on his stomach. He drags his thumbs down the crease between Viktor’s hips and thighs. He mouths at Viktor’s hip, and Viktor bites his lip as Yuuri turns his head and noses against Viktor’s cock. Yuuri braces himself against Viktor’s thighs, holding him in place. The brush of his lips up the side of Viktor’s cock is just enough that Viktor opens his mouth to plead; then Yuuri swallows him down, cheeks hollowed around Viktor’s shaft, and all Viktor can manage is a wordless groan of pleasure.

The steady pressure of Yuuri’s mouth is perfect. Enveloped in warmth, Viktor’s head drops back against the pillows. He closes his eyes and lets the sensations overwhelm him. Yuuri’s hair tickling the inside of Viktor’s thighs—Yuuri’s nose brushing against Viktor’s groin—Yuuri’s tongue dragging heavily against the underside of his cock—Viktor’s whole body drawn tight as Yuuri sucks him off.

Viktor can’t keep still, no matter how much he wants to do it for Yuuri, not with Yuuri’s mouth around him so tight—

“Yuuri— _Yuuri,_ I—”

Yuuri pulls off his cock with a loud pop. He laps at the head of Viktor’s dick, just enough that it feels incredible, just enough that Viktor whimpers because it’s not enough for him to come.

“Here,” Yuuri says, and he pushes Viktor’s thighs apart. “Hold that for me. Good.” He pats Viktor’s leg.

That brief bit of praise makes Viktor shiver—he can see Yuuri slicking up his fingers—and he averts his eyes, stares at the ceiling, waits. Yuuri trails wet fingers over his thigh, toys with Viktor’s balls, and then Viktor feels him prod at his entrance. Yuuri’s digits are long and slim. They press deep inside him; Yuuri curls his fingers until Viktor jumps.

“You know you have an entire box of sex toys under your bed?”

“They’re from Chris.”

Something hard and round presses against him. Viktor can’t actually see Yuuri inserting the vibrator, but he can feel the silicon sliding into him. It’s not very big, but Yuuri makes up for it by slipping his fingers in alongside it. It lies inside Viktor, inert, and at any moment Yuuri might turn it on. Viktor has never tried one, not even on his own, and the anticipation is unbearable—

“Is that where you got this one?” Viktor asks. He knows it’s not true—he saw all Yuuri’s suspiciously unmarked black boxes—but Yuuri looks up at him and scowls.

“Don’t think about anyone but me.”

“How can I not think about Chris when you’re using his— _fuck!”_

The vibrator clicks on. It thrums in him, and Yuuri adjusts it until it’s right against his prostate. Viktor feels the shock of it all the way up his spine, ass clenching in want. Everything goes pleasantly hazy; the only thing he can think of is the sensation inside him, and Yuuri’s fingers dug into the meat of his thigh.

_“I_ bought this for you,” he says. “Because—because you’re _mine.”_

The tip of his tongue drags lightly up Viktor’s cock, flicking into the slit at the tip, and then he’s in Yuuri’s soft wet mouth, again, and the torture begins anew.

Yuuri knows him too well. Viktor has never allowed himself the luxury of honesty in front of a lover, not until Yuuri swept into his life and made off with his heart, and Yuuri has had months and months to learn Viktor’s every weak point. He is relentless. He knows exactly how to make Viktor writhe—how to tease the head of Viktor’s cock with his tongue, how to take Viktor so far down his throat Viktor can feel him swallow, how to make Viktor feel like his dick will melt in Yuuri’s mouth.

And he knows exactly when to stop, just as Viktor is on the edge of release.

“Yuuri—Yuuri, _please—”_

“Shh.”

The intensity of the vibration in his ass increases. Viktor whines in frustration; if Yuuri would just lick him a little, right now, he could come, and instead Yuuri starts worrying bruises into Viktor’s thigh. He leaves a line of marks up his leg, stops to bite at the sharp point of his hip, drags his tongue through the sweat beading on Viktor’s stomach. Every nerve in Viktor’s body is on fire as Yuuri kisses over his belly, body arched so that he doesn’t accidentally touch Viktor’s cock.

Yuuri sits up, and for a moment Viktor thinks Yuuri is going to leave him here, all worked up and waiting, but instead Yuuri straddles his stomach instead. His thighs press in alongside Viktor’s ribs. He tugs down his pants.

His cocks juts out between his thighs, red and dark and full. Viktor wants it. His mouth falls open, and Yuuri reaches out to trace his lips. He’s smirking, like he knows exactly what Viktor is thinking, and probably he does.

“You look so hot right now,” Yuuri says.

He strokes himself. Viktor watches him touch his cock with acute jealousy; he wants to lap at the precome dripping from the tip, wants Yuuri’s wiry pubic hair to scrape over his skin, wants Yuuri to fuck him until he can’t anymore.

Viktor’s nails dig into his palms as he strains against the rope. Yuuri is lazily jerking off, stopping only to lick his palm filthily between strokes. He leans forward, and his cock leaves a wet trail against Viktor’s chest. It feels like a brand.

“I used to dream about this,” he says. Yuuri’s voice is unsteady, and Viktor feels a thrill of pleasure at having managed to affect him. “About having you—all to myself.”

“You do have me.” Viktor is so hard it hurts. If only Yuuri would touch him.

“I know.”

Yuuri leans forward, bracing himself against Viktor’s chest, fingers spread wide over Viktor’s heart. Viktor shuts his eyes and listens to him breathe. Yuuri’s gasps—the slick noise of his hand moving over his cock—Viktor’s pulse pounding in his ears—the vibrator pulsating inside him, keeping him right on the edge—

Yuuri moans and comes all over Viktor’s neck and face.

It’s hot. No one’s ever come on Viktor before, and he revels in it, Yuuri marking him as _his_ Viktor.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, desperately. “Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

The rest of his words are swallowed up by Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri kisses him like he wants to eat him alive.

“Ask me.”

Viktor swallows. Yuuri’s eyes are so close, so dark. “Please let me come.”

“Anything you want, Vitya.”

He rearranges himself against Viktor’s side. One arm slides under Viktor’s neck, and the other wanders down until finally—finally—Yuuri’s fingertips skim Viktor’s cock.

Yuuri wraps a hand around and starts stroking. The whole world falls away, and Yuuri’s grip on him is the only real thing left, and tears run down Viktor’s cheeks as Yuuri touches him, harder, and faster. He’s so sensitive it almost hurts; pleasure and pain meld together, and Viktor can barely take it, can barely manage to make his mouth say Yuuri’s name.

He doesn’t last long. He can’t. Yuuri whispers his name again. Viktor comes; he lets go, trembles, falls apart.

 

 

 

 

Viktor looks wrecked.

He’s flushed pink from forehead to groin, an ugly, splotchy blush that Yuuri loves. There’s still come all over his face; his eyes are closed, and there are tears clinging to his lashes. Yuuri gapes at him for several seconds before he remembers that the vibrator is still on, and Viktor’s wrists are still tied. He lifts Viktor’s hips and carefully pulls the toy out, Viktor shuddering against him as he does. Then he starts fumbling open the knots.

Underneath the rope Viktor’s wrists are a little red, but not bruised. _Maybe next time,_ Yuuri thinks, and shivers at his sudden optimism. It has all gone better than he dared to hope.

“Vitya?” he asks as he feels Viktor’s wrists. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Move your hands?”

Viktor obediently rotates each hand. He drops his arms onto his chest, rolling his shoulders, and Yuuri slides a hand under his neck and helps him sit up against the headboard.

He’s too quiet. He doesn’t look upset, but— “Vitya? Say something.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “I…I just washed my face.”

“…excuse me?”

“What if I get acne?”

Viktor sounds genuinely stricken, and Yuuri knows he shouldn’t, but he takes one look at Viktor’s horrified expression and loses it. He clutches his stomach, trying to muffle his laughter, and instead starts practically howling.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Viktor says, and it comes out indignant, but then Viktor starts laughing, too.

 

 

 

 

  
After Yuuri has carefully wiped Viktor’s face clean, they lie in bed kissing for a few minutes, Viktor boneless in Yuuri’s arms. Viktor pushes him off, and Yuuri opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, disaster scenarios running on fast forward in his mind. Is he not taking care of Viktor right? _Oh, god._ He’s fucked up.

A wrinkle appears between Viktor’s brows.

“Sorry,” Viktor says. He bends forward, folding himself in half, reaching for his ankles. “I need to stretch.”

“Right.”

Yuuri watches as Viktor slowly gets off the bed. He cringes every time Viktor winces—as he has to bend his knees to stand up, as he leans backward and then forward to crack his back, as he absently rubs each kneecap. Viktor always stretches before bed, of course, both of them do. And he’s seen Viktor in pain more and more lately, as Yuuri prises off his mask to reveal the real him underneath.

But this is different, somehow. The result of Viktor’s suffering after practice is a beautiful skate. The result of Viktor submitting to Yuuri is no less beautiful, but Yuuri can’t but feel unworthy of it.

“Yuuri?”

He shakes his head, trying to dispel his gloomy thoughts. _Viktor’s an adult,_ he thinks, _who can choose for himself._ Viktor’s chosen him, time and time again, even when Yuuri was too stupid to understand that that was what he was doing. Yuuri isn’t worthy, it’s true, but that doesn’t matter. Yuuri just needs to be here, in this moment, not in that dark place in his head.

“Yeah?”

“Can you hand me my phone?” Viktor frowns. He rubs at his eyes; his eyelids are drooping. “And my pants?”

Viktor’s pants are on the floor where Yuuri took them off him, but Yuuri has to drag himself off the bed and actually hunt for the phone. It’s not anywhere in their bedroom. Yuuri checks the bathroom, and finds nothing but proof of how nervous Viktor must have actually been (the towel hasn’t been hung up to dry flat. Even the thought of wet, crumpled towels gives Viktor a fit.)

Finally Yuuri discovers it wedged between the couch cushions. Viktor has three new messages and fifty new emails; his lockscreen is a photo of Yuuri doing yoga while Makkachin lolls on the floor beside him. It’s adorable. Yuuri can’t even be self-conscious about the fact it’s a candid shot; Viktor’s love for the subjects comes through in every pixel.

When he comes back to the bedroom, Viktor has gotten under the covers and is reading something intently on Yuuri’s phone.

Yuuri joins him and waits. Five minutes pass. Viktor shows no sign of noticing Yuuri in bed with him.

“What are you—” Yuuri peers over Viktor’s shoulder and groans. “Are you seriously googling ‘does semen cause acne?’”

“What if I break out? This is an emergency,” Viktor replies. He angles the phone towards Yuuri; he’s on a skin care forum, reading a thread from 2012 titled ‘bukkake????’. “Apparently it’s supposed to be good for your skin, though.”

“It was only on your face for a couple minutes.” Yuuri takes the phone out of his hand. He plugs both phones on his nightstand; Viktor doesn’t protest. “Did it bother you that much? I should have asked.”

“You don’t have to ask over every little thing. I didn’t mind, really. I just won’t wash my face first next time.”

“Next time?”

Viktor smiles.

Yuuri ducks his head to hide his grin. _Next time._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter. probably. with my luck it will be another ten chapters. what is wrong with me.
> 
> comment so i don't despair and delete all my writing software


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you really fantasize about fucking me before we even met?”
> 
> Yuuri’s hand slips and he accidentally slaps his Pokemon in the face. “I’m sorry!”
> 
> “I don’t mind.”
> 
> “Not you,” Yuuri says. He pets his Furfrou one more time before setting his 3DS down. Eternal friendship will have to wait. “Why are you asking me about this?” Yuuri has got to stop admitting things to Viktor while they’re having sex, because Viktor remembers them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the skincare scene is dedicated my comrade, meg, who i promised something cute and domestic. sorry about the ass eating. 
> 
> thanks to dommi for the last minute beta! also thanks to spooky for lending me your skin care knowledge!

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?” Yuuri pets his Furfrou furiously. He’s almost got affection maxed out in Pokemon Refresh, and then Vicchan 2 will finally be his best friend forever.

“Did you really fantasize about fucking me before we even met?”

Yuuri’s hand slips and he accidentally slaps his Pokemon in the face. “I’m sorry!”

“I don’t mind.”

“Not _you,”_ Yuuri says. He pets his Furfrou one more time before setting his 3DS down. Eternal friendship will have to wait. “Why are you asking me about this?” Yuuri has got to stop admitting things to Viktor while they’re having sex, because Viktor remembers them all.

“You did! Tell me everything!”

“No!”

“Why not?”

Viktor, sitting on the opposite end of the couch with his legs propped up on the ottoman, pouts at him. He holds up his arms and wiggles his fingers impatiently. Yuuri sighs deeply, but he crawls into Viktor’s lap.

“It’s not…it’s not what you think.”

“Yuuri…” Viktor whines.

Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s shoulder for a moment. Viktor smells like coconut now, because his favorite brand of body wash was reformulated and he insists the new version dried out his skin. Yuuri can’t really tell the difference in Viktor’s skin before and after—it still feels and tastes the same under Yuuri’s lips, his hands, his tongue—but he likes the new body wash’s scent.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s okay.” Viktor squeezes him. “It can’t be more embarrassing than you skating into the wall that one time, or drunkenly climbing Hasetsu Castle naked—”

“I wasn’t drunk! That was _you!”_

“Was it?” Viktor shakes his head. He nuzzles against Yuuri’s hair, which is unfair, because Yuuri is weak to that. “Please, Yuuri?”

“They weren’t really about you.” Yuuri swallows heavily. “I mean…I fantasized about having sex, and you were attractive, so I fantasized about you, but it wasn’t like…I never really thought about you as a person.”

“…oh.” Viktor sounds less than enthusiastic. Yuuri is glad he can’t see Viktor’s expression, no doubt it would break his heart. “At least you thought I was sexy.”

“I’m sorry! I know you hate that.” Yuuri flaps a hand to try encapsulate Viktor’s dislike of being reduced to a stack of gold medals and a smile.

“It’s alright.” Viktor shrugs, his shoulder rising up to meet Yuuri’s nose. “Not even after I came to Hasetsu?”

Yuuri blushes. Viktor, naked and wreathed in steam from the hot springs, arm outstretched like he was inviting Yuuri to strip down and come join him in the water…Viktor definitely knew how to make an impression. Yuuri is still surprised that he didn’t die of shock the moment Viktor stood up and showed him his dick.

“I never let myself think about you like that,” Yuuri says. “It…it felt too much I was torturing myself with things that could never happen.”

“You didn’t have one fantasy about me before we started dating?”

“…not sex fantasies.”

“Oh?”

“I used to imagine that we’d meet during a competition. On the podium.” Yuuri breathes on Viktor’s neck. “And we’d shake hands, and you’d tell me how great my skating was, and after that…”

“After that?”

“You’d come over and say hi to me at competitions.”

“…that’s it?” Viktor asks. He pushes Yuuri back until they’re face to face. _“That’s it?”_

“Sometimes I imagined we’d be at the same group dinner and you’d remember my name.”

Viktor splutters. “I would never forget you!”

“It would have been stupid to fantasize about anything else!”

Yuuri doesn’t mention all the dreams he had, sleeping night after night in a room next to Viktor’s, of stealing Viktor from the world, sliding into bed beside him to seduce him, throwing him over the half-wall of the rink and taking him. Those don’t count; he didn’t choose to have those.

“Oh, my love,” Viktor says, and he puts his hand on the back of Yuuri’s neck, holds Yuuri’s red face against his skin, “you underestimate yourself.”

 

 

 

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Viktor agrees. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s lube all over his face, seeing as he’s spent the last ten minutes eating his own come out of Yuuri’s ass.

Viktor had always vaguely thought of eating ass as gross, but then Yuuri had wanted to do it to him, and pinned Viktor against the sheets, mouth hot, tongue wet, kissing Viktor’s hole like it was his mouth. All of Viktor’s nervousness evaporated, and Yuuri took him apart. Then he straddled Viktor and rode him until he cried.

“Now you do it,” Yuuri urged.

Viktor had no idea what he was doing. But Yuuri’s thighs parted for him, and there was no saying no to that look, so Viktor licked his lips and went for it.

At some point he’s going to have to seriously contemplate the number of kinks he didn’t know he had.

Right now mostly he’s thinking about being between a rock and a hard place: Viktor really wants to wash his face, but his head is on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri smells good, and the bathroom is an entire meter and a half away. Unfair. He should just able to keep Yuuri attached to him wherever he goes. Yuuri should just hold him and never let go. They’ll become pair skaters.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says. “You…”

Viktor waits. He’s ninety-nine percent sure Yuuri isn’t going to critique his performance, but it happened once, and now he has to worry about the one percent chance.

“You’re so amazing.”

“Am I?”

“The best.” Yuuri drags a hand through Viktor’s hair. “If there was a—a sex Olympics, you’d win gold there, too.”

If Viktor were a dog, he’d wag his tail. He puts his face against Yuuri’s neck and sighs.

“Yuuri…”

“Vitya…”

“I want to kiss you so much.”

“No one is kissing anyone until we’ve brushed our teeth.”

“Fine.” Viktor lifts himself up so that he and Yuuri are no longer touching, and starts rolling towards the edge of the bed. It’s a big bed; the edge is a long way away. Yuuri follows him; as Viktor clambers off the bed, feet sinking into thick white carpet, Yuuri’s hand locks around his wrist.

There’s no real reason they need to hold hands while going to the bathroom to brush their teeth, but they do anyway.

The first week Yuuri lived in St. Petersburg, he carefully avoided spitting in the sink in front of Viktor every morning and evening, no matter how furiously Viktor gargled in an attempt to coax him into domestic intimacy. Finally, Viktor had snapped, and told Yuuri that as his coach, it was his duty to inform him that swallowing toothpaste was not a part of his approved diet plan and Viktor insisted that he stop immediately.

Now they have gargling contests and compete to see who can buy the most disgusting novelty toothpaste.

“Yuuri, this is terrible,” Viktor says as he wipes black spittle off the rim of the sink.

“I know,” Yuuri says smugly. He wipes his mouth with the hem of his tshirt. It’s gross. Viktor has to kiss him immediately.

Yuuri’s mouth tastes like charcoal. Kissing him is suffering; Viktor still does it until Yuuri pulls away.

“It’s late.”

“You should go to bed. I have to wash my face.” Viktor shrugs at his shelves of skincare products. It’s going to be at least half an hour more. Yuuri’s eyelids are drooping.

“Can I do it?”

“What?”

“Your face.”

Viktor blinks. He’s not sure he understands.

“Can I, you know, wash it for you?” Yuuri waves a hand at the shelves. “And the other stuff you do. The, um, the toner and the scrubs.”

“…of course, darling, if you want.” Viktor reaches for the oil cleanser. “Wash your hands first.”

Viktory’s beauty regimen is frankly ridiculous. He knows this. He knows he spends too much money on skincare and nice makeup, that it’s not actually necessary to have his entire body lasered free of hair from the neck down, that no one needs as many clay masks as he owns. Everyone who’s ever seen his collection or gone shopping with him has laughed at him; called him, as Yuri put it, “stupidly afraid of being old”; asked what on earth all those products are even for.

Yuuri has never said any of those things, and seems to have factored Viktor needing twice as much time to get ready anytime they go anywhere without complaint.

Viktor has a stool that slides under the vanity, and he unfolds it now and sits down. He extends each knee for a moment, stretching out stiffened joints. Then he pins back his bangs hastily.

“They’re in order,” he says. “Left to right.”

“I know.”

Yuuri scrubs under his nails with the same expression he wears before he steps out onto the ice. He dries them off with a towel and then picks up the bottle of oil cleanser.

“Do I just rub it in?”

Viktor nods.

The oil is warmed by Yuuri’s skin, and Viktor’s eyes flutter shut as Yuuri gently massages it in, fingers moving in slow circles over his skin. He starts just under Viktor’s chin and works his way up, over jawlines and cheekbones and up the bridge of his nose. Viktor wants to bat his hands away from the indents under his eyes, the creases between his nose and cheeks, but when he dares look Yuuri seems more fascinated than disgusted.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. It’s always a little nerve-wracking to have his face touched, Viktor can admit to himself; Viktor’s face is one of the selling points of his career, and he’s always aware in the back of his mind that the moment the vitality of youth fades he’s going to stop being marketable.

When Yuuri’s done, he washes his hands again, and Viktor rinses away the oil with lukewarm water.

Yuuri selects the cleansing milk without prompting, and Viktor tips his head back and lets those long, clever finger fingers go to work again.

(It doesn’t help that Yuuri appears to have been genetically blessed with both perfect skin and unreasonable youthfulness. One of these days, they’re going to wake up in bed together, and the four years between them is going to be a gulf no bridge can span, and then—)

“Am I doing it wrong?”

Viktor shakes off the dark thoughts and realizes that in his malingering, he’s missed Yuuri dabbing dots of exfoliant onto his face.

“There’s supposed to be toner after the cleansing milk.”

“I did it already.” Yuuri shrugs and gestures to the pile of used cotton rounds on the vanity. “You didn’t say anything, I thought it was fine…”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve seen you do it before. I remember.”

“Do you watch me that closely, Yuuri?” Viktor teases.

Yuuri massages the scrub into Viktor’s temples. It tingles; Viktor tips his head back to let Yuuri’s thumbs drag over his cheekbones.

“Always.”

“That’s right, you’re a fan,” Viktor muses.

Every once in while, Viktor posts a picture of himself without makeup, or wearing a sheet mask, or after a workout. His PR manager tells him it’s important to be relatable to his fans, and she’s always pushing him to focus more on beauty and makeup in his non-skating posts because she thinks it’ll get him more sponsorship opportunities, increase his fanbase, give him more options when he retires.

His PR manager is a very competent woman, but Viktor sometimes feels like she thinks Viktor’s entire personality should be curated solely to make him easy to sell.

Yuuri shrugs. “I never really paid attention before,” he says. “Except to lust after you in skincare commercials.”

Viktor snorts. He splashes warm water onto his face to rinse away the scrub, and lets Yuuri dry his face with a soft, clean towel. Yuuri grabs the retinol cream, the one Viktor has to import in bulk, and sets it on the counter like it’s a ticking bomb.

“You’re tired. I can finish up.”

“I want to do it.”

Yuuri’s tone leaves no room for argument. He draws a line of eye cream beneath Viktor’s bottom lash line.

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs. He closes his eyes as Yuuri finishes with the eye cream, and then cups Viktor’s face with his hands.

He hears the sound of Yuuri setting the lid on the retinol cream aside. It’s cold against his skin; Yuuri paints it on in upward strokes, chin to temple, tracing spirals on Viktor’s face to work it in.

“It has to set for twenty minutes.”

“Why?”

Viktor smiles wryly. “Do you really want me to bore you with the details?”

“Yes.”

He immediately forgets everything he knows about retinol cream in his surprise—he’d expected Yuuri to say no.

“It’s supposed to work better if it has time to absorb.”

“Okay.”

Yuuri screws the lid back on the retinol and puts it back on the shelf. He habitually throws clothes on the floor and never remembers to roll his charging cords up properly, but he’s always careful with Viktor’s things.

“So now we wait?”

“Exactly.”

Yuuri slides his arms around Viktor’s neck. “...we brushed our teeth,” he says coyly, and then his mouth brushes over Viktor’s.

Twenty minutes passes very quickly.

“Two more steps,” Yuuri mumbles, his lips still touching Viktor’s. “Right?”

“Mm.”

“Do you hate this?”

“What?”

Yuuri gestures vaguely to Viktor’s face. “Me doing this. Do you hate it?”

“No, of course not.”

He squints. “You look like you’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Viktor lies.

“Vitya.” Yuuri uncaps the serum Viktor uses—French, the lettering on the bottle gilded—and lets a couple drops fall onto Viktor’s forehead. He starts to rub it in. “I like your enormous forehead.”

“Excuse me?”

“And your laugh lines, and that mole on your ear.”

“You know about the mole?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to hide things from me, Vitya. I’m not…” He trails off. “I’m not turned off by you being a person.”

“...I’m not…” Viktor looks down and then makes himself meet Yuuri’s eyes. “Difficult?”

“Never,” Yuuri lies. Viktor wonders if he should get that in writing. “Come on. Teach me how to take care of you.”

Viktor’s not sure he could teach Yuuri anything Yuuri hasn’t already divined for himself, considering he’s terrifyingly good at seeing through Viktor’s lies. Yuuri already takes care of Viktor, in ways Viktor didn’t even know he wanted until Yuuri offered them to him.

“Will you put my moisturizer on for me?”

“Sure,” Yuuri says. He finishes Viktor’s face with the same gravity he reserves for competitions and important interviews and that one harrowing afternoon where he got it into his head he had to have Yakov’s blessing to marry Viktor. By the time he’s done Viktor feels like he’s going to melt into the chair, he’s so relaxed.

When Viktor finds him googling “what is oil cleansing” the next day, he points him to a better website. Viktor’s skincare products mysteriously begin to reorder themselves when he runs out.

If Viktor decides that all of his nighttime products need to set for at least five minutes each sometimes, it’s definitely not because he likes to be able to kiss Yuuri in between each step, and even if it is, it’s not as if Yuuri is complaining.

(Viktor stops worrying about sex-related acne.)

 

 

 

Yuuri pours a long, wet line of red wax down Viktor’s spine, curving it around into a lopsided heart, and watches it dry. Viktor’s back is marked with crude designs, squiggly spirals and wobbly circles. He knows, rationally, that Viktor can’t see his own back, but the perfectionist in Yuuri is still annoyed by the asymmetry.

“Feel good?”

“Yeah.”

He tips the candle over the dimples above Viktor’s ass. Wax pools there. It’s candy-apple red, but in the dark room, lit only by the city lights coming through the wall of windows, it looks like blood.

Okay, that’s not a sexy thought. Yuuri tries to banish it and get back in the mood.

Viktor’s profile is slack as Yuuri drips a constellation of hot wax over his flank. Normally Viktor is shamelessly loud; here his eyes are half-closed, his mouth open. He looks...tired.

Yuuri glances guiltily down at his dick, which doesn’t appear to have gotten the memo and is mockingly flaccid, and drags his nails absently over Viktor’s ass. It’s a great ass. Firm, thick, makes every pair of pants Viktor owns sexy.

 _Okay, focus,_ Yuuri thinks to himself. He needs to salvage this somehow. His fingers creep lower, over that delicious curve, down the back of Viktor’s thigh. He strokes the insider of Viktor’s leg. If he moved a hair’s breadth closer, he’d be touching Viktor’s dick.

Viktor doesn’t even sigh.

Yuuri could slide his hand down and try, but...well. He doesn’t actually _want_ to. The smell of melted wax is making him slightly nauseous.

“Vitya?”

“Mm?”

“Is doing anything for you?”

“Mostly it makes me glad I had everything lasered. You?”

“Definitely not.” Yuuri shrugs. He abandons his attempts at fondling Viktor and leans forward to pet his head instead. “...we could watch TV?”

“We could make out during the commercials.”

“Only the commercials?”

Viktor pushes himself up onto his elbows and turns to look at Yuuri over his shoulder. He’s grinning, hair flopping over his eye where it’s grown out. He keeps changing his mind about whether he wants to try growing his hair out or now—Yuuri has heard every iteration of every argument for and against, including “am I too old to pull it off”, “mid-length hair is the worst”, and “the water bill will go up”—and Yuuri has decided to just let him agonize about it until he makes a decision.

(Yuuri would like Viktor to have long hair again, to play with it and help him style it and pull on it during sex, but he feels guilty saying that, because he’s pretty sure if he asks, Viktor will indulge him.)

“We’ll see.” Yuuri switches on one of their many lamps. “Do you remember where I put the butter knife?”

They end up watching an episode of Top Chef while Yuuri scrapes the dried wax off of Viktor’s back. Viktor keeps rubbing his foot against Yuuri’s, which Yuuri files away mentally under “Viktor’s foot thing, probably”. At some point he’s going to actually ask, but not tonight.

There was a time when Yuuri would have done anything to avoid sex-related awkwardness. There was a moment, back in Hasetsu, when Yuuri promised himself he’d end things with Viktor before Yuuri fucked it up by letting Viktor see him as a real person instead of whatever it was Viktor saw when he held Yuuri’s hands and demanded Yuuri seduce him.

Viktor’s head pillowed on his chest, Viktor’s accent thick with drowsiness as he grumbles about Russian stereotyping on American reality television, Viktor closer to him than Yuuri has ever allowed anyone to be. _I almost didn’t get any of this,_ Yuuri thinks. God, he’s stupid sometimes.

As the credits roll, Viktor starts to snore. Yuuri lays his head on top of his, and wonders what it was he was so afraid of.

 

 

 

“I’m dying.”

Viktor collapses in the overstuffed armchair. Viktor’s practice clothes are sticking to his skin, and he can feel the grease on his face, but the idea of actually getting up and into the shower makes him want to throw up. Everything hurts.

“Yakov told you not to do it.” Yuuri is hovering over him, bottle of water and painkillers in hand. Viktor notes he’s brought the Percocet, not the naproxen. “I told you not to do it. Yurio told you not to do it.”

“I’m not taking orders from a twelve-year-old,” Viktor grumbles. He accepts the pill and the water, and downs both. “And I landed it.”

“And then you fell on your ass ten seconds later.” He looks tense, drawn all tight with worry. Viktor hurries to diffuse the tension.

“Yuuri, I’m dying. Have mercy on me, your poor fiance.”

Yuuri ruffles Viktor’s hair. “I’ll get you the heating pad.”

His fiance is an actual angel, Viktor thinks, as he leans back and accepts cuddles from Makkachin. Yuuri brings him the heating pad, then dinner, and then cleans everything up without being asked. When Viktor finally drags himself upright, satisfied the painkillers are working and he no longer feels like he tried to fight a truck, Yuuri is at his side in an instant to offer Viktor his arm.

Viktor doesn’t need it, but he accepts it anyway.

It’s not until he sees the bottle of lube lying by his pillow that he remembers that Yuuri had plans for him tonight.

“I’m sorry.” He smiles; it feels stiff. “Raincheck?”

Yuuri, halfway into bed, just shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He turns out the light; Viktor hears the click of plastic against wood as he sets aside his glasses.

“I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

In the dark of the room Viktor doesn’t have to see Yuuri’s face. He knows, rationally, Yuuri is too good to be disappointed in him, but in the light, Viktor knows he’ll look for some sign of it anyway.

“We’ll retire somewhere warm,” Yuuri says. His voice is already thick with sleep. “Without any stairs.”

Viktor opens his mouth to respond, a thousand impassioned words already on his lips, entire volumes of poetry devoted to Yuuri’s devotion; before he can speak one syllable, Yuuri’s mouth is pressed slack over his.

His body slumps against Viktor’s, his hands fumbling for purchase on his shirt. His breathing evens out, and his hair flops over his closed eyes, and Viktor lies there, heart alight, until the narcotics coax him asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd apologize for not finishing the fic but let's be real, y'all knew it was a lie. i swear the next chapter will be the last one! probably! fuck me
> 
> anyways please comment, my family's acne is starving


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah,” Yuuri says. He can’t get his mouth to make words. Somehow he’s ended up on top of the podium, and this is the World Championships, and people are chanting “Katsuki! Katsuki!” from the stands, and Yuuri can see the top of Viktor’s head from second place. Second place. Viktor Nikiforov. Yuuri won.
> 
> Yuuri won. The gold medal feels very heavy around his neck; his skin prickles under the ribbon. 
> 
> What if Viktor’s mad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, the evil is defeated and i have finished this fic. 
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to phlintandsteel, who has kindly left several really nice comments on my fics and whose request i tried to incorporate into the nsfw bits.
> 
> shoutout to jiang for betaing!

“…gold medalist, Yuuri Katsuki!”

“Ah,” Yuuri says. He can’t get his mouth to make words. Somehow he’s ended up on top of the podium, and this is the World Championships, and people are chanting “Katsuki! Katsuki!” from the stands, and Yuuri can see the top of Viktor’s head from second place. Second place. Viktor Nikiforov. Yuuri won.

Yuuri _won._ The gold medal feels very heavy around his neck; his skin prickles under the ribbon.

What if Viktor’s mad?

This awful train of thought has barely gotten on the tracks when Viktor derails it by turning to look at him. He’s beaming, teeth gleaming in the light, eyes wet with tears of happiness. Yuuri nearly melts in the face of it, all the adoration he definitely hasn’t earned, but Viktor grabs his hand and shakes it enthusiastically before he can.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Yuuri says. He’s grinning now. Cameras are flashing. He hopes he doesn’t look too deranged.

“I liked your program.”

Viktor should like Yuuri’s program, considering it’s at least fifty percent about Yuuri being in love with him. “Thank you.”

He tugs on Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri bends down enough to hear Viktor whisper, “Wanna go have a group dinner so I can pretend to remember your name?”

“You’d better remember it.” Yuuri holds up his gold medal. “It’s going to be your name soon, isn’t it?”

Viktor’s eyes widen. He gasps, and he blushes, and Yuuri is suddenly absolutely certain Viktor is going to kiss him. He should probably stop him before they cause _another_ gay international incident.

Yuuri tells himself this and then yanks Viktor onto the top of the podium so he can reach his mouth.

“Guys, can you get off the podium if you’re gonna do that? You’re photobombing,” Phichit, today’s bronze medalist, complains. Yuuri detaches himself enough from Viktor to move two steps to the right, and then grabs Viktor by the hair and goes back to kissing him.

Someone wolf-whistles loudly. Cameras are going off. An ISU official is clearing his throat. Yuuri is too distracted by Viktor’s tongue to care about any of these things. Everything has taken on a surreal quality—nothing feels real, nothing but the silk of the ribbon and the heat of Viktor’s mouth and the dull ache in Yuuri’s hips and knees and heels.

When they finally break apart, Yuuri’s ruined Viktor’s hair and he’s got sparkly lip gloss all over his mouth. _That’s going to look great in the press photos,_ Yuuri thinks, and he helps Viktor step down so they can pose.

“Could you let go of his hand?” One of the staff asks.

“No,” Viktor replies.

Well, that settles it. Viktor is Yuuri’s coach, after all. Yuuri has to listen to him.

They keep holding hands for the rest of the photos and during their victory lap and in interviews, and when Viktor finally lets go of him in the locker room to retrieve their jackets, Yuuri’s hand feels bereft. They’re alone here. He toys with his ring while Viktor fixes his mascara using a compact and a travel size tube; Viktor helps him into his Team Japan track jacket.

Yuuri props his legs up on the bench so that Viktor can take off his skates without kneeling.

“Yuuri?”

“Yeah?”

Viktor cradles Yuuri’s foot in his hands, thumb drawing circles around the bone of his ankle. Yuuri has objectively hideous feet, mangled from long hours at the rink, but Viktor licks his lips as he peels off Yuuri’s sock and slides on a clean one.

“How should we celebrate your victory?”

“Is it too late for us to elope?”

Viktor chokes. Then he presses his mouth to Yuuri’s battered ankle, leaving glitter on his skin.

“There’s a waiting period for marriage licenses here,” Viktor says. “Unfortunately.”

“I was joking,” Yuuri says, his face heating. “I promised my parents we’d have the wedding at home.”

He doesn’t mention that this conversation happened approximately one day after Viktor arrived in Hasetsu or that Yuuri spent most of it making increasingly frantic denials while his mother thanked him for bringing home such a nice son-in-law and made him promise he’d visit often even if they decided to settle in Russia.

(“Your Vicchan is such a polite boy!”

“He’s not mine,” Yuuri protested. “He’s not!”

Mari, arms full of Viktor’s endless luggage, snorted. “Sure he isn’t. Just tell him he’s not allowed to have a destination wedding. We could use the business in Hasetsu.”)

“You were good today,” Yuuri says. He flexes his toes against Viktor’s hand. “You want to celebrate? Pick something.”

“You’re the one who won.”

“I know.”

Viktor unlaces Yuuri’s sneaker, puts it on for him, and starts lacing it back up. “Yuuri, will you—”

The locker room door slams open. Chatter fills the air, and Viktor gives Yuuri a look from under his lashes, dark and wanting. Yuuri wordlessly picks up his other foot and rests it on Viktor’s thigh.

“Yes,” he says, and he watches Viktor swallow before undoing the knot on his other skate.

 

 

 

 

 

It takes too long to get back to the hotel, to say goodbye to their friends. The elevator ride to the seventeenth floor feels hours long. Yuuri keeps his arm linked with Viktor’s the whole way, but he keeps his eyes on the ground. He can’t look at Viktor; every time their eyes meet, his whole body burns with lust, and if he starts kissing Viktor here in the elevator he’ll never be able to stop.

He drags Viktor down the hallway to their room, sneaking glances at Viktor’s tomato red face all the way.

“Shower,” he says, and he starts pulling off Viktor’s clothes. Everything ends up heaped on top of the desk—for once Viktor doesn’t try to fold anything—and then Yuuri puts both hands on Viktor’s broad back and shoves him forward into the bathroom.

He fumbles with the tap. The water is barely lukewarm when they get in, but Yuuri doesn’t even notice. He closes his eyes against the spray and lets Viktor press up behind him, impossibly warm. Viktor lathers both hands in soap and starts washing Yuuri’s shoulders.

It feels good, but if they start in here now they’ll never get to what Yuuri has planned.

He bats Viktor’s hand away and gives him a washcloth. “Here.”

“Let me do it.”

“Not today,” Yuuri says.

Viktor pouts. “Why?”

“Because I’m World Champion and I say so.”

Yuuri takes a moment to panic at the fact that he just bragged about his win to the five time World Champion, but Viktor only sighs and starts washing himself.

_Washing is the wrong word,_ Yuuri thinks as he tries not to stare at Viktor scrubbing his own chest in the most pornographic way possible. His glasses have been left in the room, and he’s never been so glad to have bad eyesight in his life; if he could _clearly_ see Viktor dragging a washcloth over his nipples sensually, there’s no way this shower would end with either of them any cleaner.

He scrubs up as fast as he can, ignoring the way Viktor keeps brushing up against him despite the palatial hotel shower. Viktor insists on conditioning his hair, and so Yuuri is done first.

“I’ll meet you out there.” Yuuri pushes Viktor’s wet bangs out of his eyes. “Hurry up.”

“I’m beautifying myself.”

“You’re the most beautiful person in the world already. Hurry _up._ I want you.”

Before Viktor can answer, Yuuri steps out of the shower, snags a towel, and leaves him in the bathroom alone.

Which leaves Yuuri in their hotel room with only half-formed ideas about how he’s going to wreck Viktor and a shoebox of questionable bondage equipment Yuuri smuggled through customs in his suitcase. The nerves he’s suppressed so far rear their heads now that he’s by himself. Yuuri sucks in a deep breath, and focuses. _One thing at a time,_ he thinks.

It’s only Viktor. Viktor, who sat quietly outside the rink bathroom while Yuuri had his pre-competition anxiety attack. Viktor, who buys expensive face powder because he likes the packaging and then displays the still-sealed compacts on his vanity. Viktor, who trusts Yuuri more than he deserves.

He looks around the hotel room.

He has an idea.

 

 

 

 

 

“Yuuri?”

Viktor is lingering in the bathroom doorway, towel slung over his shoulders, offering Yuuri a smile. He’s not wearing any clothes; Yuuri notes the fresh tape on his feet and feels a sudden longing. He wishes he had thought to offer to do that himself, which… Okay, that’s a new thing. A new thing he didn’t know he was into.

Yuuri is sitting in a chair, left ankle resting on his right knee, gold medal hanging around his neck. He’s pushed his wet hair back and put his glasses back on. Viktor looks at him, at the bed behind him, at the king-size mattress that’s been dragged onto the floor and covered with pillows, and licks his lips. Yuuri smirks as Viktor’s eyes flick to his lap, to where Yuuri is pointedly stroking himself.

Yuuri taps the mattress in front of him with his foot.

“Sit.”

Viktor walks across the mattress until he’s standing over Yuuri and then he drops gracefully to his knees. He looks up at Yuuri, hands curling around Yuuri’s calf. He looks smaller like this, from above. More fragile. More precious.

“Comfortable?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor nods.

“Good. Let me know if you have to move.”

“I will.”

Yuuri uncrosses his legs and lets Viktor rest his head on Yuuri’s lap. Viktor nuzzles against his bare thigh, wet hair sticking to Yuuri’s skin. Viktor sighs, like getting to put his head in Yuuri’s lap is a privilege. His breath is warm.

“Hands behind your back,” Yuuri says. He leans down and grabs Viktor’s wrists, which are held crossed in the small of his back, and cuffs them together. The cuffs have a longer chain than normal, and are padded so that Viktor doesn’t get hurt while wearing them. They’re gold; the metal gleams against Viktor’s skin.

Yuuri digs his fingers into Viktor’s hair, nails scraping across his scalp, and holds his head still. Viktor’s lips part, his tongue flicking out; Yuuri watches him strain. He can almost reach the tip of Yuuri’s cock, but not quite. He pulls against Yuuri’s hold, and Yuuri yanks on his head in response, dragging his head back until their eyes meet.

“Did you want something?”

“Yuuri.” Viktor licks his lips. “Please.”

“Please what, Vitya?” He cups Viktor’s cheek with his other hand. “You have to ask nicely.”

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“Yeah? You’re going to be a good boy and make me come?”

“I’ll be so good, Yuuri.” Viktor’s entire body strains forward, and Yuuri has to pull his hair hard enough that his eyes glisten to keep him still. “Please let me.”

“Well…” Yuuri pretends to think about it, like he’s capable of turning away Viktor and his plush, soft, pink lips. He slips his thumb into Viktor’s mouth and tugs his mouth open. “All right, Vitya. Show me.”

Viktor groans with delight and sucks the head of Yuuri’s cock into his mouth. His tongue presses eagerly against the slit, lapping like he can’t get enough of the taste. His mouth is so, so warm—his eyes screwed shut with pleasure—his lips slick. Yuuri presses his fingers against Viktor’s hollowed cheeks to feel the bulge of his dick inside as Viktor’s head bobs, taking him in, little by little.

Yuuri rests his foot on top of Viktor’s thigh, toes brushing his groin, and Viktor moans decadently, sending delicious vibrations through Yuuri’s cock. He moves his foot back and forth, the sole rubbing against the soft skin of Viktor’s trembling leg. Viktor makes an animal noise and tries to pull off, but Yuuri grabs him by the hair and jerks him forward until Yuuri’s entire cock is crammed into his mouth.

“Mmph,” Viktor whimpers.

“None of that. Did I tell you to stop?”

He puts his other foot on Viktor’s opposite thigh. Viktor shudders, and his mouth goes slack for a moment. Then he starts to suck in earnest, drool running down his chin as he chokes himself on Yuuri’s dick. Yuuri can feel Viktor swallowing around the head of his cock, the sweet pressure of his cheeks, the frantic movement of his tongue. Neat, put-together, five time World Champion Viktor Nikiforov, sloppily sucking Yuuri’s dick on his knees with bright red cheeks and wanton moans of pleasure.

This is the Viktor that belongs to Yuuri alone. Viktor’s never done this for anyone else, Yuuri knows—it’s only for him that Viktor is willing to be degraded, it’s only for him that Viktor is ready to be ruined.

Yuuri shifts his foot between Viktor’s legs to rest on top of his swollen cock.

Viktor makes a choked noise, his entire body thrown forward as he tries to rut against Yuuri’s foot. Yuuri pushes back against his erection, feeling precome smear along the sole of his foot. Viktor’s so hard Yuuri can feel the pulse in his dick.

The moaning around his cock is too much; Yuuri grits his teeth, watching Viktor’s obscenely stretched lips slide back and forth on his shaft, smears of spit and precome all over his perfect face, and can’t hold back. He clutches at Viktor’s head as he comes, filling Viktor’s pretty mouth. There’s semen dripping from the corners of his lips. His throat bobs as he tries to swallow every last drop.

“Good boy,” Yuuri says. He pats Viktor on the head. “Can you stay like that for me? Your mouth feels so nice, I want to keep using it.”

Viktor blinks at him, eyes wide and blue and confused, but he obediently keeps Yuuri’s softening cock in his mouth.

Yuuri rewards him by slipping his other foot between his legs. He cradles Viktor’s cock between his soles. His feet are mangled from skating, taped and deformed, but Viktor’s sucker-punched cry of pleasure proves he doesn’t mind.

He puts one foot underneath Viktor’s cock, and the other on top, and presses down. He can feel it twitching as he slowly massages Viktor’s erection between his feet. Viktor always gets so wet—every time he gets hard, he ruins his clothes—and Yuuri’s feet are getting dirty.

“Did you think I didn’t know you liked this, Vitya?” He carded his fingers through Viktor’s damp hair. “Did you think you were hiding how much you wanted to fuck my feet?”

Viktor says something, muffled by Yuuri’s dick in his mouth, that might be Yuuri’s name.

“You deserve this.”

Yuuri wriggles his toes, curling them into Viktor’s balls. He pushes his heel against the head of Viktor’s cock, harder and harder until Viktor squeals. Tears are dripping down his face, his pupils blown; his hips rock as he grinds down on Yuuri’s foot. He’s a mess. Yuuri revels in it. He revels in Viktor’s shuddering with every stroke, his panting as he tries to keep his head still, the sweat beading on his temples as Yuuri jerks his cock off between his feet.

He revels in every single one of Viktor’s tiny noises of pleasure.

Viktor whines again, shifting in place so that Yuuri has to squeeze his feet together to keep his cock from slipping out between them. A familiar furrow has appeared between his brows. _He’s been on his knees for a while,_ Yuuri thinks, and he gently pulls on Viktor’s hair until his cock slips out from between his lips.

“You wanna lie down?”

“Please,” Viktor says.

Yuuri shoves at him until he tips back onto the mattress; he ends up on his side, hands still cuffed, cock sticking out from between his thighs. Yuuri bends down and turns him onto his stomach so that he can uncuff Viktor’s wrists; there’s red marks on the inside of each wrist from where he struggled, despite the padding. Yuuri digs his fingers into them; they’re beautiful.

Viktor flips back over and opens his legs wide, hands under his head, all desperate and needy. Slowly, watching Viktor's desperate expression, Yuuri takes his cock between his feet again. He rubs Viktor’s cock with his toes--the bottom of his foot--against the side of his ankle—catches it between both heels and slides them up to the head, right where Viktor is sensitive—

“Yuuri—Yuuri, fuck—” Viktor moans as he comes all over Yuuri’s feet.

He lies there, exhausted and gorgeous. Yuuri wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, and then clambers off the chair and collapses onto the mattress next to him. It’s soft and enormous, the result of them booking the most expensive room at the hotel; the sheets are a cotton so fine it feels more like silk.

_We ruined the sheets,_ Yuuri thinks as he rubs slow circles into the back of Viktor’s shoulder. _We’re going to have to bribe the cleaning staff again. God, I hope no one we know is staying on this floor._

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Viktor says. He rolls over and stretches out both legs, then turns over so that they’re nose to nose. “Although I don’t understand how that was a reward for _you.”_

“I like getting to be in charge.” Yuuri stares at Viktor’s chest instead of his eyes. “It’s relaxing.”

Viktor finds his hand, his fingers tighten over Yuuri’s own.

“I enjoy it more than I ever thought I would. But that’s just because it’s you.”

He flushes. “I liked competing against you, too.”

Yuuri closes his eyes as Viktor mouths at his temple; in a moment, he is trapped in Viktor’s arms. He loves Viktor, just like this, wrapped around him and affectionate. The way Viktor clings to him sometimes speaks of some past neglect. There are so many things Viktor wants, and Yuuri watched him for half his life and had no idea. He wants to give Viktor them all.

“I don’t know how much longer I can skate,” Viktor says, hushed.

The thought of the future makes Yuuri sick with anxiety sometimes. But Viktor’s hold on him is tight, and so Yuuri sets aside all the fears he has inside—of retiring and not knowing what he’s going to do with himself, of never winning again and retiring in disgrace, of Viktor getting bored of coaching him—and gives Viktor a kiss.

“You can retire and be my trophy husband.”

“What about when _you_ retire?”

“I can be _your_ trophy husband. We can take turns.”

Viktor laughs.

“I don’t love you because you skate,” Yuuri blurts out, before he can talk himself out of saying it. “I love your skating because of you, so don’t—”

He stops. He doesn’t have words for this. He’s bad at this, at getting out what he means without couching it in layers of subtext or turning it into skating or drinking his body weight in cheap champagne. But Viktor hums in thought, and rests his forehead against Yuuri’s.

“Okay,” he says, and he gives Yuuri that soft, private smile that is his alone.

There are any number of things Yuuri could say to that, like “How are we going to explain this to the hotel staff?” or “Aren’t we supposed to be getting ready for dinner?” or “I love you.”

Instead, he asks, “How are your knees?”

“Fine. Nothing rest won’t fix. And maybe…you could rub them for me…?”

In about fifteen minutes, Yuuri is going to remember that he’s actually starving and needs real food. Their fellow competitors are going to leave them a number of snide text messages reminding them that they’re supposed to all be out at dinner, if Viktor and Yuuri can tear themselves away from their hotel room and each other long enough to eat a meal.

“Anything you want,” Yuuri says, as his heart does its best impression of a lightbulb. “Anything you need. I want to do it.”

“Me, too.”

One day, they will return to Russia, and there will be another season of skating, and then another, and one day they will wake up and be retired, and one day, Yuuri thinks as he tries to figure out how they’re going to get the mattress back on the bed, it will just be the two of them, old and grey, with creaking bones and very full hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i did it i finished a wip and now i can die in peace. anyways please comment, comments are the grease that keeps this wheel turning.


End file.
